


Holly and Ivy

by moonblossom



Series: Ink and Honour [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Christmas, F/M, Family, Fluff, Historical, Humour, M/M, Regency, manners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Dinner at Baker Street, Regency-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holly and Ivy

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of hopelessly happy Christmas fluff, because I need more fluff in my life apparently. Don't worry, there's more smut coming soon.
> 
> Huge thanks to my mum (yes, my mum!) for betaing this. There was a bit of a comedy of errors about this getting beta-read, and finally she took pity on me and my absurdly self-indulgent breakdown and read it for me. XD

The wailing noises coming from the kitchen were utterly ghastly. John, concerned that Sherlock had been baiting Mrs. Hudson again, trotted over and stuck his head in the door. The picture that greeted him was one anyone else would have found utterly shocking, but John had come to know Sherlock's tender side quite well in the past year.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the worn wooden table, face buried in her hands. Sherlock was patting her back in a soothing gesture that would have been all too familiar and improper coming from anyone else.

"I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, it will turn up."

"But-- but--" She sobbed, trying to compose herself. "It was my mother's. It is the only thing I have left of hers. It may have just been cheap tin and paste stone, but it--" She sobbed again and looked up, noticing John. He flushed, embarrassed to have caught her in such a state, but she smiled a watery smile and gestured for him to enter.

The kitchen was full of deliciously overwhelming smells; sprouts roasting, wassail on the stovetop, plum pudding and mince pie for seconds, and, most impressively, a whole goose. Mrs. Hudson had recently invested in a proper oven for Baker Street, and had indulged in being able to roast her own goose, rather than getting one cooked. It smelled heavenly. John inhaled deeply and appreciatively, and grinned at Mrs. Hudson in an attempt to distract her.

"Oh, ignore me, I am a silly old woman. I seem to have misplaced my mother's brooch. Sherlock seems to know exactly where it is, but he is being difficult and refusing to tell me."

John cast a glance at Sherlock, who looked utterly unrepentant. 

"Consider it a gift from me when it inevitably turns up, dear Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock..." John scolded, but his heart was not in it. He had faith -- however misplaced -- in Sherlock. 

Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered hanky and had just composed herself when there was a knock at the door. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, as if the whole concept of Christmas dinner visits were above him. Chuckling fondly, John headed through the parlour to answer the door.

The recently-married Lestrades were there, brimming with good cheer. John opened the door wide and greeted them with fondness and familiarity, eschewing any formalities. Mrs. Hudson was nearly as fond of Molly as she was of Sherlock, and as such even Gregory had essentially become a part of their odd little family.

Gregory ushered Molly into the parlour, stepping out of the softly falling snow outside. She undid the ribbons on her bonnet, which was clean and new and trimmed with a lovely silk flower. Gregory's cloak had shiny new fur trim around the collar. Clearly they were doing decently for themselves. Molly shook her hair out and removed her own wool cloak, just as Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the parlour.

If Molly's dress was a little too voluminous under the bust for the current trends, and her cheeks a bit too rosy and bright, nobody noticed save for Sherlock, and for once he had the decency to keep his thoughts to himself.

Mrs. Hudson bustled through, greeting them both warmly. There was a chorus of _Happy Christmas_ es echoing through the small hallway. Sherlock leaned pointedly against the wall and made quite a show of looking bored, but everyone knew it was just that. It was common knowledge that he was much happier being here than stuck at the ancestral pile with his brother.

Smoothly, Mrs. Hudson ushered everyone into the sitting room. A fire crackled merrily away in the hearth, below a mantle decorated with holly boughs and hellebores. There was a small nosegay of mistletoe hanging from the rosette on the ceiling, and Gregory leant over and kissed Molly on her rosy cheek, in the open manner of the recently married and genuinely in love. 

"Ridiculous Pagan tradition, that." Sherlock huffed. John caught Sherlock's eye and smiled, nodding at the ball of berries and foliage. They had kissed often enough under it to have driven poor Mrs. Hudson 'round the bend already, they could afford to be more discreet now.

"Speaking of bizarre traditions, when I went to deliver some mending to Captain Featherstonehaugh, he had an entire tree in his front sitting room, covered in glass baubles! Can you imagine? A whole tree?!" Molly giggled breathlessly, as if the whole idea were just too absurd to picture. Gregory chuckled fondly and patted her hand.

"Yes, I had heard people were doing that on the continent. Seems like an absurd waste of space, if you ask me." Sherlock interjected.

"Thankfully," John murmured gently, "nobody asked you."

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson pretended to look scandalised, but she too was laughing at their antics. "Now, Sherlock, just behave for Christmas, would you please? If I remember correctly, I was promised some violin music." She smiled beatifically, as if daring him to contradict her. Sherlock knew better than to argue though, and dutifully pulled his violin case out from behind the settee.

He stood, adjusted his waistcoat, and put chin to violin, his eyes closed in concentration. Everyone in the room -- Gregory included -- had to admit that he painted quite a picture like that, dark lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones in the flickering firelight.

Conceding to both the holiday and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock played a cheerful tune familiar to all of them. Molly fidgeted in her seat for a moment, looking hopefully at her husband.

"Go on then," he smiled.

Her voice was lovely and soft. Untrained, but with a sweet and musical lilt.

" _The holly and the ivy, now are both well grown,  
Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown._ "

She sang well, and Sherlock smiled despite himself, playing through the full carol. Eventually everyone else joined in. When they reached the end, Mrs. Hudson smiled widely and clapped.

"Oh, that was lovely. Thank you, everyone. Especially you, Sherlock. What a beautiful accompaniment."

A vaguely sour look crossed Sherlock's face. John caught it and laughed. "Fine then. You were the main feature, we simply provided the accompaniment."

Sherlock bowed slightly at the waist, mollified. "Thank you, John." He put his violin back in the case, but made a point of not putting the case away. They were all aware he could easily be coaxed into another performance after the meal, with a choice bit of flattery.

The five of them settled into quiet companionship, simply enjoying the lovely atmosphere and the pleasant company, talking about everything and nothing all at once. Eventually, the delicious smells from the kitchen wafted into the parlour, and even Sherlock's appetite perked up.

"Shall we move into the dining room then?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes glittered knowingly. It may have been nearly impossible to get Sherlock to eat when he was busy or distracted, but he had nothing going on during the holiday period and she had gone out of her way to make things she knew he would deign to eat.

Gregory and Sherlock settled into place at the table, already heavily laden with silverware, glasses, and small containers of flowers and greenery. Molly bustled into the kitchen behind Mrs. Hudson. John, ever the polite one, followed them to help carry the more cumbersome items.

There was a veritable parade of food and drink. Aside from the goose centrepiece, there was a roast of beef, a dish of roast turnips and carrots, the sprouts (which Sherlock proclaimed looked like tiny brains and refused to consume them in favour of cutting into them experimentally), mushrooms fried in butter, yorkshire puddings, and a strange dish of what looked like dumplings in a tomato-based sauce. There was wine, wassail, and barley water to drink. The spread was lavish and far too large for the five of them.

Rather rudely, Sherlock prodded the dumplings in the tomato puree with his fork. He lifted one onto his plate and began to dissect it with his cutlery. Mrs. Hudson clucked and stared at the ceiling.

"Honestly, Sherlock. I believe they call it a _ravioli_." She pronounced the word with a heavy foreign emphasis. "That lovely Angelo over on Northumberland Street made them. Go on then, I assure you it is not poisonous."

At that, Sherlock looked nearly dejected, as if he had hoped the strange food would have some mysterious properties. He sighed theatrically and everyone at the table laughed.

Mrs. Hudson began carving the goose, which was nearly as large as she was. John offered to help, but she demurred. As she cut into the neck, there was a sharp, metallic noise and something stayed the carving knife. Sherlock let out a triumphant crow as she reached in and pulled out her missing brooch.

"Exactly where I expected it to be! I was certain you had it pinned at your throat when you went into the kitchen, but when I came in to help--"

"Hinder." Mrs. Hudson cut him off. He really had been no help at all, hovering and nicking food without impunity.

"To _help_ ," he continued, as if he had not been interrupted, "it was already missing. You were so eager to be cooking your own goose, I surmised that at some point during your efforts it had fallen inside."

"Oh, Sherlock! Why could you not have just told me where it was?"

"Was this not more exciting?" He looked positively gleeful, and everyone at the table had no choice but to chuckle. Mrs. Hudson swatted him fondly with a small towel and went back to serving the meats.

For a while, the only sounds were the muffled clinks of silverware on china and the contented murmurs of people thoroughly enjoying their food. At a lull, Sherlock spoke up.

"Well then, Molly? Lestrade?" Sherlock had that familiar tone to his voice, and John steeled himself for whatever was coming. "Have you decided on names yet?"

John cringed, and Mrs. Hudson's mouth fell open slightly. Molly was flushed and giddy, her wide eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"Well, we had thought Rupert if it is a b--" She caught herself and squeaked nervously, clapping her hands to her mouth. Sherlock looked suitably smug, as Molly had clearly just confirmed his hypothesis. "How did you know?!"

"Oh come, Molly. It is quite obvious. Your dress is more voluminous than you usually favour, as though you have recently gained weight. You have been avoiding the more potent wassail in favour of the barley water and wine, as modern science would suggest is beneficial for a woman of your condition. Your dear husband has been fidgeting all evening, as though itching to share a secret. You both have, as they say, a glow about you."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson admonished, reaching across the table to swat his hand. "You know it brings bad luck to discuss this sort of thing before the mother has announced it!"

"Superstitious twaddle!" Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John kicked his ankle gently beneath the table.

Mrs. Hudson returned her fond gaze to Molly. "Although, Molly dear, and Gregory, are congratulations in order then?"

Gregory shrugged. "I suppose we may as well make it official. Thank you Sherlock, as usual your lack of tact has saved us all a great hassle."

John laughed, despite himself. Poor Molly flushed again and speared a brussels sprout rather aggressively, no doubt imagining it was Sherlock's thigh, or some other equally tender and fleshy area.

"And what of you then, John?" Gregory interrupted, seamlessly managing to drive the conversation in a safer direction. "Any bright young lady caught your eye? Is it not about time you settled down? Or at least engaged in some convivial relations on the side?" He leered playfully and waggled his eyebrows. 

John smirked, embarrassed, as Sherlock spluttered indignantly. Mrs. Hudson let loose a fit of nervous giggles, but thankfully Gregory remained oblivious to the entire wordless exchange.

"Lestrade, honestly. Must we resort to such tawdry conversation at the table?" Sherlock huffed, apparently once again in control of his faculties. "I am certain John's personal life is quite fulfilling, and needs no further discussion." John bit his cheek in an attempt to stifle his nervous laughter, and he could have sworn Molly raised an eyebrow at them both. Sometimes she really could be more perceptive than was good for her.

Gregory snorted. "And you bringing up my wife's delicate condition was not equally so?" Poor Molly squeaked again, pointedly hiding behind a rather large yorkshire pudding.

Thankfully, the rest of the meal passed without further verbal sparring. The plum pudding was set ablaze and consumed with hearty abandon, and Sherlock consumed three slices of mince pie. John secreted away a few pieces of each in a serviette, to bring upstairs to their rooms in case he needed to bribe Sherlock to do anything in the upcoming weeks. Mrs. Hudson noticed his efforts and looked away, smiling and pretending she had seen nothing.

After the meal, they retired into the parlour. The fire had begun to die down but Gregory prodded it skilfully with a poker and it was not long before they had a bright, roaring blaze in front of them.

Without even being asked, Sherlock picked up his violin again and indulged them with a few more carols and variations on popular hymns. A veil of closeness and contentment settled over the household. Privately, each and every person in the room thought to themselves that they had finally found a proper family. Of course, not a one of them dared to vocalise such a personal and intimate thought, and yet there seemed to be a sense of mutual understanding amongst them.

The peaceful intimacy was abruptly shattered by a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson had only invited the Lestrades, so nobody was entirely certain who had come to call. It was Christmas Eve, nearly everyone would be at church, or with their families (or facsimiles thereof).

Sherlock, apparently deciding he was now head of house, barged to the door and threw it open. Mycroft was standing on the front step, sporting a heavy cloak and what appeared to be a brand new top hat. In one hand he had a great bag of some sort. Sherlock scowled.

"Mycroft, what an unpleasant surprise. No please, do not trouble yourself to come in." Sherlock stood pointedly in the doorway until Mrs. Hudson prodded him.

"Honestly, Sherlock. It is Christmas, do let your brother inside. It looks awful out there." John, who had come to the door to investigate, peered out around Mycroft's frame and had to agree with her assessment. The light snow had turned into an awful mess of slush and drizzle, and everyone seemed a bit shocked that Mycroft had made the trip into the city in such inclement conditions.

"Oh, alright, but only since you asked, Mrs. Hudson." Glowering, he stepped out of the way and permitted Mycroft entry. Mrs. Hudson graciously accepted his cloak and hat and hung them on the stand by the door.

"I do not intend to stay long, but I was in the city for business--" Sherlock snorted loudly, interrupting his brother, who continued on without acknowledging the noise, "-- and I thought I should pay my respects." He nodded graciously at the assembled party.

"I do hope you do not intend for this to be a regular occurrence." Sherlock grumbled. John glanced sidelong at him and he quieted down, but continued to glare daggers at his brother.

"Perhaps I should take my gifts and leave then."

At the mention of gifts, Molly squeaked again. John and Mrs. Hudson both turned to her, startled, as if they had nearly forgotten her presence. "Perhaps Gregory and I should be heading off."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Lestrade. I have brought things for the both of you as well." Mycroft gave them both a controlled, magnanimous little smile and Sherlock rolled his eyes for what seemed to be the thousandth time that evening. They retired back into the front parlour and sat down, all a bit flummoxed, as Mycroft began rummaging in his huge satchel.

"For the new Mrs. Lestrade, a sewing kit and the necessities for your upcoming layette." Molly's eyes went wide as she clutched her stomach, and she stared at Sherlock, who shrugged emphatically.

"I told him nothing -- I had only just figured it out when you arrived. He has spies everywhere."

Molly gripped her husband's hand tightly, clearly overwhelmed by the generosity and omniscience of the elder Holmes brother. "Thank you!" she managed to stammer before running her fingers fondly over the yards of delicate muslin and lace.

"And for Constable Lestrade, a pair of lined leather gloves. They should fit you quite well, and keep your hands warm when you are on duty." Gregory's eyes widened as he slipped on the gloves. They were indeed a perfect fit, and the softest leather he had ever handled. How on earth had Sherlock's brother known his size? Stymied into silence, he merely nodded appreciatively. Mycroft did not seem to mind.

"For you, my dear Mrs. Hudson, a new bonnet from France." The bonnet was both fashion-forward and age-appropriate. It was a lovely deep mushroom colour that set off her hair quite well without overpowering her, with a ribbon of lilac that was somehow subdued and daring all at once. Despite the fact that they were indoors, Mrs. Hudson put it on and Molly clucked fondly over it. 

Mrs. Hudson patted the delicate fabric with one hand before removing it. "You should not have gone to such lengths!"

"You put up with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson. You deserve much more than a new bonnet." Mycroft murmured smoothly.

She chuckled, but reached out to pat Sherlock's hand soothingly. She may not have voiced the words out loud, but the gesture spoke volumes, making it clear that she was not "putting up" with Sherlock in any capacity. He grinned smugly at his brother.

"For John Watson, who has brought about such odd changes in my dear brother. I daresay he is barely the same person I left here last spring. I offer to you a razor, crafted by the same hand as the one Sherlock uses."

At this, John's eyes went wide. He reached out and cradled the straight blade and the strop Mycroft had included.

"The one he uses was our father's, but I suspect Sherlock never mentioned that fact to you. I thought the symmetry of you having a similar one would be..." he paused. "Significant."

John was touched. It was the closest they would ever come to an official acknowledgement or family blessing of their secret status. Moved beyond words, he tucked the razor into one of his pockets and absentmindedly stroked Sherlock's knee with his thumb. Gregory caught the gesture and his eyes went wide, but Mrs. Hudson shot him such a glare that he vowed to keep quiet.

The gifts were lavish and unexpected. Everyone, aside from Sherlock, was murmuring and muttering, attempting politely to refuse them, even though it was quite evident that they were all smitten already.

Sherlock coughed and stood, and John pulled his hand away sharply. Sherlock snorted. "Do not assume any generosity or largesse on behalf of my brother. This is merely his way of reminding us all of his elevated station in life."

"You wound me, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Alright then, Father Christmas. Thank you for coming; now please be going."

Mycroft made a tsk-ing noise in the back of his throat.

"Really, little brother. Did you think I would come all this way and not give you a gift?"

"Well, I have no gift for you, and I could not bear the impolite breach in protocol of not offering you something in return." Sherlock made a shooing gesture towards the door and everyone -- Mycroft included -- laughed at the very idea of Sherlock being concerned about manners.

"Sherlock! For once in your life would you allow me to do something kind for you?" Mycroft very nearly shouted, but remained otherwise unruffled.

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. For all their petty bickering, they genuinely were fond of each other beneath it all. For Mycroft to shout in this manner was unexpected. He sat back down without saying another word.

Mycroft paused, composing his thoughts. After a moment's consideration, he sat down on a spindly chair facing his brother.

"It is clear to me that you have chosen your lot in life, Sherlock. And, for all the absurdity contained within, you are genuinely content here."

Something in Sherlock's face softened for a moment. He was clearly put a bit off-balance by his brother's abrupt change in tone. He nodded, first in the direction of Mrs. Hudson and then towards John.

"I have come to accept that you will never take your place as the head of the family when I retire. Your happiness means more to me than you would believe, I suspect. But I want you to be comfortable. I cannot publically appear to approve of the lifestyle you have chosen for yourself, but I want to ensure that you know you are always welcome at home."

Sherlock's expression was guarded, his eyes narrowed in confusion, but a small smile played about his lips.

"There is a small cottage on the property. Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade will be familiar with it, having spent their wedding night there."

Poor Molly blushed at the frank discussion of that evening, but Gregory merely grinned.

"My gift to you, Sherlock, and by extension to John also, is that cottage. So should you ever choose to return home, you will have your own space."

"I live _here_ , Mycroft." Sherlock gestured vaguely to the room and the people around him. He was trying to maintain an aloof sense of disinterest, but it was evident to everyone in the room that the gift did indeed mean something to him.

"And I do not expect you to move, Sherlock. I just want you to be aware that you do not have to force yourself to stay away."

There was a carefully schooled moue of irritation on Sherlock's face, but John patted his knee encouragingly once again. Mycroft held out a large brass key and Sherlock took it, tucked it into one of the inside pockets of his waistcoat, and said nothing.

"I shall leave you all to your evening, then."

"Oh, could we not convince you to stay for a spot of tea and a slice of plum pudding?" Mrs. Hudson intoned, holding out a small plate of the sweet treat.

"I suppose it would be the polite thing to do." 

Sherlock snorted derisively again, but his heart was not in it this time. He smiled at his brother.

It was not long before Molly stood up, blushing. "I am beginning to feel a mite overset." She flushed, and flapped her hands, gesturing vaguely at her midsection. Gregory put a hand to her back, steadying her, and Mrs. Hudson cooed over her in concern.

"Shall I get you some warm water? A blanket?"

"No, no, thank you." She demurred, leaning sleepily against her husband's supportive arm. "I will be fine in the morning, but we mustn't tax your hospitality further."

Imperiously, Mycroft stood up and made a sweeping gesture towards the front door. "Allow me to offer you use of my carriage. There is room enough for the three of us."

Molly looked slightly overwhelmed at the offer, but Gregory was not too proud to accept. He nodded gratefully and slipped his hands into his new gloves.

There was a bit of a flustered kerfuffle at the door as everyone wished everyone else a happy Christmas and a good New Year, several times over. Sarcastic remarks were made, hats were donned, cloaks were sported, and eventually everyone parted amicably.

Sherlock, apparently overcome by an excess of holiday spirit, kissed Mrs. Hudson lightly on the cheek. Startled, she gasped and giggled in a manner most unbecoming a lady of her age, and John grabbed Sherlock about the waist.

The contact between them was not lost on her. "Go upstairs, you two. We can tidy in the morning." She smiled, flapping her hands at them fondly. 

The look John shot Sherlock was heady and full of promise. "I do believe we have gifts to exchange upstairs." Mrs. Hudson hummed loudly, pretending not to hear, and Sherlock sprinted eagerly up the stairs. From the landing, he tossed a sprig of mistletoe at John, who caught it deftly and tucked it into the collar of his waistcoat before marching upstairs, whistling contentedly.

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will write a Christmas-themed Sherlock fic that doesn’t obliquely reference The Blue Carbuncle. Unfortunately, this is not that fic.
> 
>  
> 
> Here is a lovely version of The Holly and the Ivy, the carol they sing together
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And here are a few references that came in very handy, all about Christmas traditions in the Regency period.
> 
> http://www.reginascott.com/christmas.htm  
> http://jenniferswriting.blogspot.ca/2009/12/traditional-christmas-in-regency.html  
> http://www.literary-liaisons.com/article022.html


End file.
